“Don’t be a coxcomb, Alick, my dear. You mean little Drusa? She’s a child and has everything to learn yet of proper self-respect in her association with gentlemen. But we are not talking of her just now. I hate to send you from me, Alick; but I really do think you are bound to pay Anna the respect of going to Old Lyon Hall. I would go myself, if I felt equal to the journey, and take you as an escort; but as I am, I must let you go alone. There is a coach leaves to-morrow at seven in the morning. What do you think of taking a place in it?”
“I would as lief as not.”
“Upon my word! If Anna is as indifferent in this matter as you are, I think it is a pity you two were ever betrothed,” said the old lady, looking over the tops of her spectacles.
Alexander laughed.
“Our betrothal is such an old story, mother, and we are used to it. Besides it rests upon such a solid foundation—having one foot upon Crowood and the other on Old Lyon Manor—that we feel secure in it. And wherever there is security there must be indifference.”
“Where did you learn to sneer, Alick?”
“I am not sneering. Heaven forbid. My Cousin Anna is a beautiful and accomplished young lady, for whom I have great respect and esteem. When I see her I shall press her to name an early day for the nuptials. And no doubt we shall get along as well as most people.”
“Humph! when I was young lovers were in love. I suppose you have ‘changed all that now.’ Pray, Alick, did you see any lady in Europe whom you very much admired?”
Alexander laughed.
“Why, of course, mother! Scores and scores! But they are last summer’s leaves and blossoms, dispersed and forgotten. At least I shall bring to my bride a heart single to her service. For if I am not madly in love with Anna, I am not in love with any one else, unless you call my fatherly fondness for little Drusilla—”